


Common Enemies not Allies make

by AlViWalker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Geniuses, Murder Mystery, OC being an idiot, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:02:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlViWalker/pseuds/AlViWalker
Summary: Rebekkah hadn't come to London to get involved in local crime solving but of course her curiosity and penchant for finding trouble wouldn't allow her to pass up on the very enticing opportunity to do just that. Meeting a certain consulting detective hadn't been in her plans either, but perhaps it wouldn't be too bad to keep him close. After all, they had an enemy in common
Relationships: John Watson & Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

“Most peculiar,” I mumbled to myself, rapidly scanning the front page article of the newspaper in my hands. The police had held a press conference pertaining to the recent murders that had rocked the city and were so obviously not suicides that I had a hard time understanding why it had taken them this long to figure it out. I had only been in the city for two days and was already aware of it. And it more than tickled my interest to find out more about this. It was such an interesting case and I wished I could get access to the crime scene reports and of course the findings of the autopsies, but alas, that was not possible.

A gust of cold wind blew a few strands of auburn hair in my face and I absentmindedly tucked them behind my ear, pondering if I should get involved or not. I hadn't come to London to get caught up in things of that nature, quite the opposite in fact, but I couldn't help the intrigue I felt. I was very bad at resisting such temptations.  
  
Folding the newspaper and tucking it under my arm, I walked down the almost empty streets, lifting my face to the sky when I felt the first drops of rain on my head. With a smile, I chuckled, lightly shaking my head as I continued on my walk back to the motel I was currently residing at, amused at myself for not carrying my umbrella which I usually took everywhere I went.  
  
But I had just intended to quickly step outside and get myself the days paper, though of course I had been too lost in thought and had wandered off much further than originally planned. Quickening my steps, I put up the collar of my coat to shield myself at least a little, the drops falling from the sky more insistent and fatter, promising a good downpour soon.  
  
Luckily, I made it back before I could get drenched completely, and once back inside my rented room, I hung up my damp coat and slipped out of my heels, leaving both by the door. Taking the newspaper, I looked at the headline again **Mysterious suicides the work of a serial killer?** glared back at me in thick black ink, and I pursed my lips, contemplating for a moment as I stood in the middle of the room.  
  
With a weary sigh and a roll of my eyes, I placed the paper on the surprisingly comfortable queen sized bed and picked up a map of the city I had brought with me from home, spreading it out on the ground. Taking up a red marker I always carried with me, I circled the places where the victims bodies had been found and those they had been seen last before their untimely demise.  
  
From what I had been able to gather, not much time had passed between them disappearing and time of death, so it was safe to assume that the killings took place immediately after they had been taken. The distance between locations was odd, seemingly random, but only to those who weren't able to think like a criminal. Where the bodies had been found were places rarely frequented during late hours and they also were not very close together.  
  
Which meant, the perpetrator had had to use some mode of transportation to get from point a to point b and since it was highly unlikely he or she had bodily dragged his victims to the location of their inevitable death, I surmised that they had gone willingly for some reason. That only left a few possibilities as to how that had been accomplished.  
  
Who did we trust enough to get into a car with them without knowing them? The obvious first answer was of course the police, but people tended to remember seeing cops and I was relatively certain that this was not it. Who else then?  
  
Roving my eyes over the map, I tapped my finger against my lip before I froze completely. Of course! How could I have been so blind?  
  
With a delighted laugh, I whirled around and slipped my shoes and coat back on, this time taking my umbrella with me as I hurried out of the room, all but flying down the stairs, too impatient for the slow elevator. It was raining rather heavily now, but underneath the black expanse of my umbrella, I was relatively safe, grimacing a little as my feet got wet. Heels might have not been the best choice of footwear for this weather but it was what it was and I hardly would go back to change. A minor inconvenience at best.  
  
I knew where to go, the map had clearly spelled it out to me, the rest was just a matter of luck, which I hoped would be on my side. There was no real plan to this, but the burning curiosity in my chest wouldn't have let me remain at the motel, much less granted me sleep. It was almost too much of a coincidence that my motel was so close to the sight where the second victim had been found, but it was not where I was headed. Nothing of value would be there and I was much more interested in walking the mostly empty streets, the late hour and pouring rain keeping most people inside. Which was perfect for what I had in mind, dangerous and risky as it was.  
  
I had maybe walked about an hour, when a car slowed down next to me and glancing over, I bit back a smile at the very welcome sight of a black cab, the light on its top dark. The window on the passenger side was rolled down and I could barely make out a man at the wheel, a flat cap perched upon his head, shrouding his face in shadow.  
  
“Evening, miss. Might I offer a ride? Can't 'ave a young lady walk through the pour like t'at,” he greeted me with a very distinct accent and my lips curled into a smile. Looking up and down the road, satisfied that no one was around, I stepped down the curb and opened the back door, shaking out my umbrella before I slipped inside the cab.  
  
“That's too kind of you, sir. I really do have the wrong shoes for this kind of weather.” I chuckled, shooting him a wink through the rear view mirror and he gave me a toothy grin, waiting until I had closed the door and put on my seat belt before he pulled away and took off down the street.  
  
“Typical this time o year. Couldn't help but notice your accent, you're not from round here I suppose?” Shaking my head, I let out a tinkling laugh, discretely perusing the inside of the cab. My eyes fell on a folded picture on his dashboard, showing two smiling children and what I assumed to be the arm of someone standing next to them, likely their mother.  
  
“Germany. Just got here a few days ago. Those are lovely children. I could never understand how some women seem to think it is acceptable to keep their kids from their fathers. Dreadful really. When did you last see them?” He was clearly caught by surprise, his face falling for just a second before he had caught himself again, but his former jovial tone carried a slight hint of suspicion now which delighted me to no end.  
  
“How'd you know?” Ah, yes. This was always the part I liked most and comfortably settling in my seat, I gave him a small smile when he glanced at me through the rear view mirror again.  
  
“The picture is obviously older and you deliberately cut her out of it, which means you don't have any other pictures of them, likely because she took them with her after the divorce. There are old as well as fresh remnants of shaving cream behind your ear, which indicates that you live alone since no one pointed it out to you. There is also the matter of your clothes, while clean, they are obviously old, leading me to the conclusion that you merely try to keep up pretence whilst not caring about the rest. And there is still a light patch of skin where your wedding band used to be, though it had clearly been a while since she left you. But I am much more interested to know how you got those people to kill themselves, Mr. Hope. Would you care to indulge me?” My smile had brightened as excitement rushed through me and I knew I had been right when he dropped the façade of polite cab driver, giving me a grin that was more teeth than anything else.  
  
“Aren't you a clever one. I could show you if you really wish to know. But I must warn you, you might just end up like the others.” Waving his threat off, I let out another laugh, wholly unconcerned with his words.  
  
“Oh, I'm not worried about that. The greater the risk, the greater the fun I say. I'm just delighted to get to meet you. Might I ask why you're doing this? I can hardly believe it is just to spite society and show them that you're not only a cabbie most would not bother to take a second look at,” I asked sweetly. Flattery opened many doors and it seemed he wasn't impervious to it either, his chest puffing a little as he shot me a mischievous wink.  
  
“All in good time, my dear. First we need to pick up someone else. Might I ask your name? S'only fair since you know mine,” he deflected, but my curiosity was roused of course. Who would we be picking up? I doubted he had an accomplice, he didn't seem the type but I decided to simply wait and see.  
  
“Rebekah Landovski. Twenty-eight years of age, from a small town near Hamburg. It's my first time outside of the country if you can believe it. If had known the world was this exciting, I would've left much sooner,” I replied conversationally, looking out the window to discern where we were going, not that it did me any good. I had not been in this part of town before and it was too dark to read the street signs. At least the rain had stopped again.  
  
“Let's hope for your sake it's not goin' to be the last trip you've taken. Might've been better to stay in that little town o' yours.” Mr. Hope gave me another toothy grin when I glanced at him and I raised a brow in response, not bothering to hide my amusement, though I refrained from commenting.  
  
I was burning to get to the bottom of this, learn all about this strange man who looked so inconspicuous on the outside. He seemed clever, witty, but I had the feeling that this was not born out of his own mind but someone else's. Which begged the question as to whom he was working for and what the point of all this was. Create chaos perhaps, but there surely was more to it than that. My thoughts got interrupted when we stopped in front of an apartment building with a black door, the brass numbers glinting in the dim light of the street lanterns, a sandwich shop named Speedy's right next to it.  
  
“If you would excuse me for a moment, I'll be right back,” Mr. Hope informed me before he got out and that he didn't bother to lock the doors told me he knew I would not go anywhere, which of course I had no intention to.  
  
221 b was a beautiful building, even in the dark, the ground floor was clad in white stone, contrasting nicely with the black door, the upper two floors had the same greyish brown bricks as the house next to it that housed the small café and there was wrought iron fencing around the small balconies on the second floor that spanned the entire length of the house. It was probably built sometime around the 18th to 19th century but had clearly undergone modernizations since then. Reminded me a little of the building I lived in back in Germany.  
  
What was very curious however were the police cars standing around and I wondered what they were doing here and more importantly why we had come here to begin with. That question was partially answered when Mr. Hope returned to lean against the side of the cab, eyes focused on the entrance of 221 b and soon after, a very tall, curly haired man in his late twenties exited, the collar of his dark coat turned up as he shrugged it on. I couldn't make out what they were saying to each other, but Mr. Hope got back into the cab and our third player seemed to ponder for a moment, glancing up at the lighted windows of the building behind him before he opened the back door and slid into the seat next to me, eyeing me in confusion.  
  
“Who are you?” The tone of his voice was not friendly in the least, but before I could reprimand him for his abysmal manners, our driver for the night answered for me.  
  
“That lovely young lady is Rebekah Landovski from Germany. She figured it out even before you did, made me pick her off the street. Clever girl I'd say.” He turned in his seat to grin at the man next to me, but the stranger wasn't paying him any attention, his eyes scanning me lightning quick, his dark brows furrowed.  
  
“Consulting Detective I assume? Explains the police cars in front of your house. And I would appreciate if you could mind your manners when speaking to me, I have very little patience for rudeness,” I decided to pre-emptive whatever he was about to say, my own eyes scanning his lanky frame as I pursed my lips, coming to my own conclusions about the man.  
  
“Then again, I can overlook it this time, considering the circumstances. Though I have the feeling you are just a rude person in general. Most people who think themselves above usually are. Are you finished with deducing me or do you need another moment?” I raised my brow at him, smirking lopsidedly when he let out an indignant huff, sneering back but not bothering to reply.  
  
Instead he addressed the cabbie, asking him how he had been found and my theory that there was someone else behind these apparent suicides was confirmed when Mr. Hope stated he had been warned about the great Sherlock Holmes, which was the name of Mr. Rude apparently. An odd name for an odd man, quite fitting I found.  
  
“How did you figure it out?” That question had been directed at me and I reluctantly tore my eyes from the window I had been gazing out off, once more raising a brow at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't sure why, but he instilled an urge in me to rile him up. Might have been the hair.  
  
“I read the newspaper today and marked the locations of both the points where the victims were last seen and where they were found. From there it was just logical conclusion. It was sheer luck that I actually found him, or that he found me if you like to see it that way.” I nonchalantly shrugged my shoulders, returning my attention back to the outside world and I could almost hear Holmes brain whirring, no doubt trying to figure out if I was lying or not.

“Told yer she's a smart one. Knew about my wife and kids as well just from sitting in here. Pity you wont make it through the night, I'm sure you would've had a lot to talk about,” Mr. Hope cheerfully stated from the front of the cab and I let out a derisive scoff, prompting him to glance back at me.

“I doubt that. I'm neither interested in chemistry nor do I particularly care for classical music. Not to mention that I do not associate with drug addicts of any kind. No offence, Mr. Holmes.” Giving the man next to me a tight-lipped smile, I inwardly delighted at his sour expression. Definitely the hair.

“Understandable since you're a recovering addict yourself. What was it, heroin? You seem like the type.” He gave me an obviously fake smile, though the hard lines around his mouth and eyes clearly told me I had hit a sore spot, which partially made me feel bad, because I was acting incredibly rude myself at the moment. Not that I was going to apologize of course. He started this after all.

“Do I now? And what type would that be, if you wouldn't mind indulging me?” I asked him sweetly, going as far as to bat my lashes at him and for just a quick second he looked slightly uncomfortable before his features smoothed into a blank mask, but I had seen and I saved the information he had just unwittingly provided me with away for later use.

“The type that gets easily bored. You're clearly more intelligent than the average person and from your upbringing I can only surmise that it was easy to get your hands on drugs. Is your father still in prison?” His observational skills were incredible if he had found all that out just by looking at me and I couldn't help but feel impressed, though I made sure not so show it. Wouldn't want him to get an even bigger head than he already had.

“How astute of you. But not everyone can grow up in a loving household with an overbearing older sibling to keep them in line. Not that it did you any good. How long have your parents been married now?” I kept my voice bored, disinterested as if this back and forth meant nothing to me but something must've given me away because his fake smile morphed into a smirk that made his eyes twinkle in a way I didn't want to notice. Objectively, he was very attractive but I tried to avoid such things as emotional entanglement or even physical if I could help it. Nothing good ever came of sentiment in my opinion.

“I might be inclined to help you in your quest to find the one that turned your father over to the authorities. If you answer one question,” Holmes replied with calculation in his eyes and I wondered what had given me away. Likely the inflection in my voice if I had to guess. Damn his keen senses.

“I do not need nor do I wish for you to help me Mr. Holmes. But feel free to ask as many questions as you like. I might even answer them.” I winked at him, going on the defence because I wanted him to drop the subject but naturally he didn't. Like a dog with a bone. However I could hardly blame him, I could only imagine how bored he must be and how seldomly he met someone who could keep up with him because I was suffering the same fate.

“Terrific. But it will have to wait until we're done with the game.” Pointing out the window, I saw that we were pulling up to two large buildings, some kind of school I assumed, the white Portland stone and columns between the second floor windows looked rather august, so it was likely higher education that was taught here.

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?” Holmes asked the cabbie who was about to exit the car and he turned in his seat, giving us both a rather unsettling smile. Not really caring either way, I got out myself, taking a few steps closer to the two imposing buildings as I wrapped my coat tighter around myself. The open expanse made the wind whip around me unhindered and I shivered a little from the fresh gust.

Mr. Hope walked past me, clearly expecting us to follow, so I of course did, Holmes falling into step next to me, intently observing our surroundings as if they would tell him what was about to happen. Through empty corridors and up a flight of stairs, we silently trudged after the cabbie until he stopped at a door, holding it open for us with a welcoming smile and I went in first, curiously looking around at what was very clearly a classroom. The light flickered on, illuminating long, fixed wooden benches and free standing plastic chairs, more stacked chairs underneath the large windows at the other end of the room, on a slightly raised platform where the teacher probably held his lectures.

“Well, what do you think?” Mr. Hope asked the both of us and I glanced at him over my shoulder with a frown, not sure why he was asking such a thing and it seemed that Holmes shared that lack of understanding from the look he threw the old man.

“It's up to you. You're the ones who're gonna die 'ere,” the cabbie explained with a grin and I rolled my eyes, not bothering to reply like Holmes did, instead taking a seat at one of the benches, grimacing at how terribly uncomfortable the chairs were.

“Let's get to it please gentlemen. I do not have all night,” I said a little stiffly as folded my hands atop the table, giving them both a pointed look. This was starting to get tiresome and we hadn't even gotten to the good part yet.

“Impatient I see. No worries, we just gonna have a bit of a talk and then it will all be over soon. For the two of you at least.” Mr. Hope chuckled at his own joke and I saw Holmes roll his eyes behind the old man's back. Biting back a smile, I tried making myself more comfortable on the hard plastic chair as I waited for both men to take a seat, impatiently clicking my nails against the wooden table when Holmes took his sweet time, making a show of turning his chair around to sit opposite and slowly taking off his leather gloves while he sighed dramatically.

“Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you. Not to mention that it's two against one with Miss Landovski here as well,” Holmes pointed out when he was finally done and Mr. Hopes eyes flickered between us as he smiled his unsettling smile again, the light revealing his yellowed teeth.

“You call that a risk? Nah.” Reaching into his cardigan, he pulled out a small glass bottle with a screw cap that held two pills inside, placing it on the table between us, his smile widening. “This is a risk.” He seemed mighty pleased with himself and I started grinning, delightedly clapping my hands, both man looking at me in surprise.

“Oh this is just wonderful! Brilliant really! A game of chance where the winner takes all and the loser gets the sweet embrace of death. I assume the pills in the second bottle look exactly the same?” I asked Mr. Hope excitedly and he looked a little disgruntled that I had already figured it out, he had no doubt planned on making a whole speech, but I had gone and ruined that.

He did reluctantly pull out an identical bottle, placing it right next to the first and I let out a happy little sigh, grinning from ear to ear. Like I had hoped, the two bottles and their insides appeared to be identical in every way.

“One good, one bad. And you of course know which is which. But how do you get them to actually play along?” I curiously lifted my head and Mr. Hope pulled out a small hand-gun, pointing it at me with a cold smile. My own fell from my face however because this was not what I had been expecting and I felt slightly disappointed.

“I see. While I can appreciate the humorous side of threatening people with a lighter, I have to admit, I was hoping for a little more.” My disappointment was evident in my voice and to my surprise, the cabbie started laughing, placing the 'gun' down on the table.

“Oh, I like this one! Your fan would like her as well I think,” he directed at Holmes who had followed our exchange silently up until this point, but that comment made him frown as he asked for clarification.

“You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction.' Now that is proper thinking. Between you two and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?” Mr. Hope seemed genuinely angry about this, lowering his head to glower at the table before looking back at us again, “Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?”

Holmes just stared back at him in contemplative silence so the old man turned his attention to me instead, smiling softly and I knew the next thing out of his mouth would be something good just by the way his eyes sparkled in barely concealed excitement.

“I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one and then, together, we take our medicine.” I immediately straightened in my seat, now he had my full attention and he appeared more than pleased by that, once more revealing his yellowed teeth as he grinned at me. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see that Holmes as well was paying full attention now.

“Now it all makes sense. How long have the doctors given you? And how much does your mysterious employer pay you for each victim? I assume the money will go to your children once you perished?” Firing off my questions in rapid succession, I was intently eyeing the two bottles of pills, trying to discern if I could spot any differences, but if there were, they weren't obvious in any way. I lifted my gaze when Mr. Hope chuckled, meeting his eyes across the table and he pointed at his head.

“Aneurysm, right here. Any breath could be my last. Have ta hand it to you, yer really good. Might even be smarter than that one.” He nodded over at Holmes who visibly bristled at the comment, but Hope wasn't done yet and kept talking, pushing one of the bottles towards me.

“But are ye smart enough to beat me at the game?” Before I had a chance to respond, Holmes let out a scoff and we both looked at him, me with a brow raised and Mr. Hope with a smirk.

“Its not a game, its chance,” the curly-haired man pointed out indignantly and the cabbie's smirk widened. He clearly enjoyed teasing Holmes. I could certainly relate to that.

“Four people in a row? It's not just chance. It's genius, I know 'ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone's so stupid, even you two. Or maybe God just loves me.” Smirking rather smugly at the both of us, Mr. Hope was visibly delighted by insulting us and I could tell Holmes didn't appreciate it, straightening in his seat.

“Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie. The question is, who'd sponsor a serial killer?” Holmes asked calmly, his intense gaze fixed on the man across from us, his hands clasped in front of him on the table.  
“Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'Olmes?” The cabbie shot back and the two men stared at each other, seemingly having forgotten about me, but I wasn't about to interrupt. I was more than interested to learn about this as well.

“You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man ... and they're so much more than that.” Mr. Hopes eyes twinkled as he calmly returned Holmes stare, a slight smile on his lips and unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I spoke up again.

“Much more how? And who exactly are they?” Holmes shot me a glance, but I ignored him, leaning over the table as I myself stared at the cabbie but his facial expression gave nothing away aside from growing irritation.

“There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to chose.” He nodded towards the bottles, his tone ringing with finality and I knew he wasn't going to spill the beans any more than he had, which was disappointing to say the least.

Since I wasn't about to play chance with my life, I had other plans after all, I let out a sigh and stood up, the legs of the chair screeching loudly over the floor.

“As fun as this was, I'm not really interested in playing. It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Hope, maybe I might come to your court case should I still be in town at the time. Goodbye gentlemen.” With a polite smile and a nod I turned to leave, stopping in my tracks when the old man called after me, a teasing tone to his voice.

“Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which bottle is which?” I knew I should just leave and not engage him further but his question unexpectedly ruffled my feathers and I slowly turned back around again, regarding him for a moment. He looked so sure of himself that it made me bristle and narrowing my eyes, I came back to the table, picking up one of the bottles.

Opening it without breaking eye contact, I smiled as I turned the bottle over and let the pills fall to the floor, hearing them scatter. Of course I had figured it out.

“They're both bad. The good one is still in your jacket, containing the medication to counteract the effects of whatever is inside these. Did you take them back in the cab when we weren't looking? Or was this going to be your grand finale? Taking the great Sherlock Holmes out, a simple cabbie outsmarting the great detective. Maybe your sponsor promised a nice bonus? I'm not nearly bored enough to fall for this, Mr. Hope. He might've been, but not me.” I gestured with my head towards Holmes who looked rather stricken, no doubt he had been about to play this game and the implications of that had surely set in by now.

“Doesn't matter. My kids still gonna get that money. You only managed to draw the attention of people you don't wanna have attention from. Might want to leave town while ye still can,” he smiled at me, cold and hard as he rose from his chair and took a menacing step towards me, reaching into his cardigan.

A shot suddenly rang out, coming from the windows on the far side of the room and the cabbie slumped to the floor, a patch of red blooming on his shirt right where his heart was. I had felt the bullet whizz past me once it had left his body, embedding itself into the wall behind me but I payed it no mind, too surprised by this sudden turn of events.  
  
Holmes had sprung up to inspect the bullet hole in the window while I just stared down at the obviously dying man on the ground. The blood looked quite beautiful against his blue shirt, letting it appear almost purple but now was not the time to marvel at this, there were still questions that needed to be answered.

“Your sponsor, what's his name?” I kneeled down beside him, my voice urgent but he just weakly shook his head, gritting out a pained no. I really didn't want to do this, but I had to know and he was dying anyway so I put my hand against his wound and pressed, making him scream out.

“Tell me the damn name, Jeff. Don't let your last minutes on this earth be filled with even more pain,” I hissed at him, a shadow falling over us as Holmes appeared, but I ignored him, increasing the pressure by leaning more of my weight on the cabbie and he whined pathetically.

“The name!” I demanded angrily, pressing harder and finally he gave me what I wanted, his eyes pain-filled and manic as they stared up at me.

“Moriarty!” He screamed out and then his head rolled to the side as he lost consciousness. It was the name I had hoped to hear, the name of the very same man that had sent my father to prison. The man I came here to kill. Ignoring any and all of Holmes questions, I wiped my hand off on Mr. Hopes blue shirt and stood up again, turning to leave but I was stopped by a very firm grip on my arm.

“Who is Moriarty?” The way he asked me was almost desperate and no matter how much I struggled, he wouldn't let go of me, so I gave him something, just so he would let me be. I didn't have time for this, there were going to be police everywhere in no time at all and I did not want to still be here when they arrived.

“Someone you don't want to get involved with. Now let go of me please,” I bit out but he didn't lessen his grip, his eyes taking on a far away look, seeing right through me and I could hear sirens approaching in the background which meant it was already too late for me to leave. I hated having to interact with the law.


	2. Chapter 2

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to slip away after the paramedics rushed the scene and took Mr. Hopes body with them, for some reason Holmes seemed to be determined to not let me out of his sight and I was glowering rather heavily as I stood at the open back of an ambulance. The paramedic insisted on putting an orange shock blanket on Holmes and if I hadn't been so miffed, I might've found it funny. As it was however, I just wanted to leave.

“Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?” Holmes asked a silver haired guy in his forties who had just joined us and I appreciatively eyed him up and down. I might not indulge, but I could appreciate when I saw someone nice. Certain present company excluded of course.

“Yeah, its for shock,” the silver fox said with a smirk before his eyes fell on me, his brows furrowing as he tried to discern who I was but Holmes distracted him by pointing out that he wasn't in shock, sounding displeased about the insinuation.

“Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs. And who might you be?” Turning his attention back to me, he gave me a dazzling smile but before I could respond, Holmes cut me off, prompting me to scowl at him. Could he maybe not be rude for five minutes?

“No one of importance. So, the shooter. No sign?” Successfully drawing attention away from me once again, what I assumed to be a detective stated that they had not much to go on, which of course Holmes gladly corrected, though during his explanation of how the shooter must've been someone with strong moral principles due to them only shooting after danger was perceived, likely military background, he trailed off, looking at something, or rather someone in the distance as he stood.

Glancing over my shoulder, I followed his line of sight, spotting a short, sandy-haired man who was looking our way before turning his head away. How curious.

“You know what? Ignore all that. It's just the shock talking,” Holmes stated hastily, already beginning to walk off towards where the man stood and since I had no desire to speak to the police, I followed after him.

“Where are you going? I still have questions for you!” The detective called after us and Sherlock turned, flapping the edges of the orange blanket still around his shoulders.

“Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!” Holmes stated irritatedly before adding, “and I just caught you a serial killer... more or less.” I had to roll my eyes at his antics and the detective seemed to share my dislike, regarding both of us for a moment, his eyes lingering on me before he let out a sigh, pointing his finger at Holmes.

“OK, fine. But both of you need to come in tomorrow. Now off you go.” The exasperated tone of his voice told me that this was likely a recurring theme but Holmes certainly didn't seem to care, taking off in wide strides whilst I followed more measuredly. Mostly because my legs were only half the length of his.

Of course Holmes reached the mystery man before me, the orange blanket carelessly thrown through the open window of a police car and I saw them talking to each other as I got closer, pondering if I should just leave now that he didn't seem to pay any mind to me anymore. That was when he turned around again, impatiently motioning for me to hurry up and rolling my eyes, I deliberately walked slower, shooting him a sugary sweet smile that made him scowl at me.

“I'm not a dog Holmes. If you keep up with this rudeness of yours, I might be forced to teach you some manners. And let me assure you, that it will not be a pleasant experience for you,” I said after ducking under the yellow police tape, still smiling falsely before I turned to the man beside him, smiling more genuine.

“Though wholly unnecessary, that was truly an excellent shot. You might want to clean your hands though, just in case. Use soap with ground pumice if you can, that works best in my experience. And get rid of your clothes, there's residue all over it now.” Blinking, he gaped at me and then looked at Holmes for help, clearly having no idea how to respond but Holmes just shrugged his shoulders, looking off to the side.

“She isn't wrong. Wouldn't want to risk a court case, you have just killed a man after all,” Holmes pointed out and the short man let out a nervous cough, looking around to make sure no one had heard.

“But he wasn't a very nice man.” His response made me chuckle lowly and I lowered my head so no one could see. Wouldn't do good to look too happy whilst standing at a crime scene.

“A terrible cabbie as well. Should've seen the route he took us to get here,” Holmes responded with a chuckle of his own and the sandy-haired man giggled, admonishing the taller man for making him laugh, voicing my own thoughts on the matter. I let them banter as I followed them, nodding at a female officer who was glowering at both men as we walked past and she threw me a suspicious look, not nodding back. Rude.

“Am I allowed to leave now that everything is over? I would rather like to call it a night,” I asked innocently and Holmes glanced at me over his shoulder with pursed lips but before he could answer, the man next to him seemed to realize that we had not been introduced.

“Not to sound rude, but who are you?” I held up a hand when Holmes opened his mouth to once more answer for me, but I was not having that again. I didn't know what his deal was, but I was more than capable of speaking for myself.

“Rebekah Landovski, nice to meet you, Doctor...?” Trailing off, I waited for him to tell me his name but he just stared back at me and Holmes let out a huff, extending his hand with his palm up towards what I assumed was his one and only friend. I could hardly believe someone as rude as him had anymore than just the one.

“Give me your phone. Better yet, give her your phone,” he demanded, pointing his thumb at me and to my surprise, the sandy-haired man actually did so without questioning it, which said quite a lot about him. More than I think he realized.

Looking down at the phone I suddenly found in my hand, I frowned, glancing between both males and Holmes stared back at me expectantly, pointedly alternating between looking at me and the device in my hands. With a roll of my eyes and a heavy sigh, I studied the phone for a moment before handing it back to its owner, smiling sympathetically.

“I do hope your sisters gets help. Alcoholism is not a nice thing. Maybe you can even mend your relationship once she gets clean again.” Holmes let out a curse, shooting me a rather nasty look and I placed my hands on my hips, completely over his terrible attitude.

“How did you know its his sister? Harry is not a woman's name.” Accusation swung in his voice and I gaped at him, scoffing incredulously. This man! Shaking my head, I began walking again but I did answer him because I knew he would not stop pestering me otherwise.

“It's obviously a woman's phone. There is nail-polish embedded in some of the scratches and in my experience most men tend not to wear that. Which means Harry is likely short for Harriet. Does that answer your question?” My own voice was rather acidic, but he was really starting to get under my skin and I certainly didn't appreciate that.

“John Watson. And that was bloody brilliant. He thought Harry was my brother,” the man on my other side stated with awe and more than just a hint of amusement and I smiled at him, extending my hand so he could shake it. A firm grip, I noticed.

“Thank you Doctor Watson. At least I know now why he is so sour. How did a former soldier end up with someone like him? I've only known him for less than two hours and I already want to strangle him. I can't imagine actually living with the guy.” The Doctor chuckled, much to Holmes displeasure if the sound he made was anything to go by.

“Luckily for you, there is an empty flat in the basement. So you wont have to endure me all the time,” Holmes stated a little stiffly and I swivelled my head around to once more gape at him. He smirked back at me, pleased over making me speechless and I opened my mouth to ask him what in the world he thought he was doing, when Dr. Watson interrupted me, pointing at something ahead of us.

“Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about.” He sounded rather freaked out by this and I ran my eyes over the man he was pointing at, noting his bespoke suit and the impeccably dressed woman next to him, glued to her phone, obviously an assistant.

“I know exactly who that is,” Holmes did not sound pleased, striding off towards the newcomer and both the Doctor and me followed after him. Just from the way they were looking at each other I could surmise who the man was and it brought a little smile to my lips.

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it? And you also made a new friend I see,” the man greeted Holmes, his eyes flicking to me before returning to the curly-haired man in front of him. Holmes completely ignored this however, demanding to know why he was here, his shoulders tense at the utterance of concern about his person.

“Yes, I have been hearing about your concern.” The last word was dripping with sarcasm and I threw a look at Doctor Watson who was watching the exchange with a frown, clearly perturbed.

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” Before the situation could escalate and because I had little interest in their banter, I stepped closer, drawing both their attention to me.

“As fascinating as your sibling feud is, I had not intended to spend my night like this. So if you could both maybe speed this up a little, I would more than appreciate it,” I said as politely as I could and the older Holmes raised his brow at me, eyeing me with renewed interest before addressing his brother.

“I see you have been talking about me, dear brother. How very flattering,” he stated drily and the younger Holmes let out a scoff, sneering at his brother.

“I did no such thing. She probably knew who you were the moment she saw you. Isn't that right Bekah?” Pointedly looking at me, he clearly wanted me to confirm this but Doctor Watson had apparently found his voice again, sounding utterly confounded.

“Wait, wait, wait. He's your brother?” Rolling his eyes, Holmes shook his head exasperatedly and not wanting the nice Doctor to feel like an idiot, which Holmes was no doubt about to do, I answered instead.

  
“Yes. I do not know what happened between the two of you, but he is, in fact, his brother,” I told Watson before rounding on the younger Holmes, my tone much less friendly than it had been with the Doctor.

“What did I say about not being a dog? I don't do tricks on command and I do not appreciate you calling me Bekah. Unless you want me to start calling you Sherly, I would advise you to either address me as Miss Landovic or not at all. Consider this your final warning Mr. Holmes.” He visible bristled, most likely because I was chastising him in front of his brother, but I couldn't care less. I had been more than patient with him, more so than I tended to be but I was no saint and he was dancing precariously on the edge of the volcano.

“This has been most intriguing. But unfortunately, business calls. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Landovic, I am sure we will be seeing each other again.” The elder Holmes inclined his head towards me and I felt more than saw his younger brother bristle even more, which gave me no small amount of pleasure to which the older brother clearly caught on, lowering his head to hide his smile.

“Likewise, Mr. Holmes. Though I am sure you wont be as accommodating the next time we see each other. A word of advice, it is not as bad as it looks. It's worse. Have a nice night,” I replied, alluding to the background check he would no doubt do the minute he was back inside his car and since it was the perfect opportunity, I looked at both Doctor Watson and the other Holmes.

“Evening gentlemen.” Not waiting for a reply, I took off, hands buried in the pockets of my coat when it occurred to me after a few meters that not only were my umbrella and purse still in the cab that had brought me here, but that I had apparently also lost my key, because there was a distinct lack of plastic in my pockets.

Stopping, I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes so as to not lose it entirely in front of the police that was still milling about the place, but it was rather hard. Deeply inhaling and then exhaling, I turned around again, Holmes and the Doctor still standing where I had left them, though the older Holmes was already gone, his car no longer there. Resisting the urge to run at him and tackle him to the ground, I measuredly walked back over to them, extending my hand.

“The key-card Holmes.” With a smirk, he fished around in his coat before pulling out the key-card to my motel room and placed it in my outstretched palm. I immediately pocketed it and then swiftly kicked him where the sun didn't shine, wearing a smirk myself as he crumpled like a piece of paper, letting out a wheezing sound that made my heart sing.

“I warned you, didn't I? Better listen to me next time,” I pointed out sweetly before turning on my heel and leaving again, this time hopefully for good. He had a Doctor at his side after all, so I wasn't too worried about it. And he had definitely more than deserved it.

“See you at the yard tomorrow!” Holmes managed to press out loud enough I could hear and I responded by showing him the finger, not even bothering to turn around.

* * *

It took me forever until I was back at the motel, my feet were hurting terribly and my mood was somewhere below zero since I had to walk the entire way here, seeing as I had no money on my person to pay for a cab. I also had gotten lost one or two times which did not help to improve my already sour disposition. When I had set out to meet the man responsible for the recent murders, I could not have anticipated meeting Holmes as well and it left me feeling a little unsettled.

He had the very uncanny ability to get to me and I could not afford to let myself get distracted by him, no matter how intrigued I felt by his intellect. It did not happen often that I encountered someone with a similar brain capacity as mine and today I had met not only one but two people of similar calibre. That was what I got for letting my curiosity get the better of me, I supposed.

Slipping out of my shoes had been a relief, my feet an angry red, a few blisters adorning them and I decided it would be a good idea to take a bath and then go to bed. This had all been very exhausting, both physically as well as mentally. In all likelihood, I was going to inevitably run into Holmes again and as I soaked in the tub, I vowed to change motels come morning, to minimize that risk and to show up at the Yard as early as possible in hopes of him missing me.

Which was a completely fruitless endeavour as I turned out, because when my cab pulled up in front of Scotland Yard, he was already waiting for me, a cigarette in hand as he leaned against a wall close to the entrance and I was sorely tempted to tell the driver to keep going, not wanting to have to deal with Holmes this early in the morning. Or at all.

Instead, like the adult that I was, I payed my fare and picked up my suitcase, lugging it after me as I deliberately ignored Holmes, entering the building. It was a horrible construct of concrete and glass which people probably thought looked sleek and modern though it just made me want to gag. I never had any love for this side of architecture, I much preferred Gothic or Victorian style.

“Good, you already brought your things. What are your feelings regarding the violin?” Apparently he hadn't gotten yet that I wanted nothing to do with him or, more likely, he knew and pestered me anyway in hopes of getting his way.

“I will not move into the same building as you. Or even the same street. It is bad enough I have to be in the same city. Why are you so insistent, Holmes? You already got yourself a pet.” I felt a little bad for describing Doctor Watson as such but it was early in the morning and I hadn't slept well, or at all really, which was no doubt obvious by the bags beneath my eyes I had not bothered to conceal.

“Moriarty.” That one word, uttered quietly made me look at him sharply, my face hardening as I stared him down, both of us standing near the metal detectors that we would have to pass through before being allowed any further inside.

I was about to tell him, not so nicely, that he should get lost, but then I thought about it, actually thought about it. He was already on Moriarty's radar, which would mean sooner or later there would be a personal encounter and I could use that to my favour if I played my cards right. On the other hand, I was currently flying under the radar, though I doubted that would remain true much longer. Mr. Hope might not be able anymore to tell his sponsor about me but there had been a lot of people there yesterday and someone was bound to mention the mysterious woman with the German accent.

“I will hurt you much worse than the last time if you wake me up with your violin in the middle of the night. And don't smirk at me like that. It makes me want to kick you again,” I finally said after a few seconds of pondering the pros and cons and the smirk immediately fell from his face as he took a cautious half-step back, eyeing me warily. At least that had worked. Somewhat.

“I would rather you not do that again. You were right, it was a very unpleasant experience,” Holmes admitted, grimacing slightly and I nodded, my lips curling into a smirk of my own as I looked him up and down.

“Good. Best to keep that in mind. Now lets go meet that nice policeman friend of yours. I don't wish to spend more time in this horrible nightmare of chrome and steel than I have to.” I shuddered exaggeratedly, the mere thought of being cooped up here sending shivers of revulsion down my spine.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, as he had introduced himself to me, was exceedingly polite towards me, though I could've gone without the constant flirting. Holmes seemed to think so as well, pointing out several times that Lestrade was a married man and by the time we had finally finished with giving our statements, both men were clearly very irritated with each other. It had probably not helped that I had started flirting back the moment I noticed how it seemed to bother Holmes.

“Was that really necessary?” He asked me as we stepped back outside and I bit back a smile, looking up at him innocently as if I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Whatever do you mean, Holmes?” Narrowing his eyes at me, he worked his jaw, obviously agitated and my smile broke free as I winked at him, striding off towards the street to flag down a cab.

“I think by this point you can call me Sherlock. We're going to be neighbours soon.” I contemplated his suggestion, throwing him a sideways glance and I got the feeling it actually bothered him that I kept calling him by his last name. A part of me wanted to keep doing it just for that reason but by doing so, it would lose its impact over time, so an adjustment was needed for the long game.

“Alright. And you may call me Rebekah. Not Bekah or Becky or any other deviation of the sort, just Rebekah. I happen to like my name how it is,” I couldn't help to make clear and he gave me a blinding smile that I wasn't sure was real or not, though it certainly had an effect on me. Not that I would admit that of course. It was rather unsettling to say the least.

A cab pulled over and Holmes actually showed some manners for once, opening the door for me as he leaned down to speak directly into my ear, “It is a lovely name.”

Pursing my lips, I tried not to let it show how his baritone affected me from this close and slipped into the cab, placing my small suitcase on the middle seat, needing a buffer between us. I didn't like him being so close and personal with me. As mentioned before I didn't need the distraction.

“221 b Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie before turning his attention back to me and in an attempt at ignoring him, I looked out the window, faintly wondering if it was going to rain again. Luckily, I had gotten both my umbrella and my purse back once I had requested them and I definitely felt better now that those items were back in my possession. Small favours as they say.

“You're going to need furniture. Will that be a problem?” Heaving out a sigh, I turned my head to look at him, raising my brow in a manner of 'what do you think?' and he held up his hands in mock surrender, his lips twitching in barely concealed amusement. Despite myself, it made my own lips twitch as well and too tired to fight it, I let them curl into a small smile, pointing at my suitcase.

“Take a look inside. You tell me if it will be a problem.” His curiosity roused, he glanced at the cabbie who was pretending not to listen to our conversation, before he carefully opened the zipper, taking a peek inside. Staring at the contents for a moment, his face unreadable, he closed the suitcase again and settled back in his seat, staring out of the window before meeting my eyes again, no longer amused.

“No, its not from that. Believe it or not, I have more talents than just being pretty and smart. Everything inside that,” I pointed at the suitcase again, “was earned through honest work. Ghost-writing mostly. Some people pay exorbitant amounts for someone else to write their books if that someone is good at what they're doing. For me it's easy enough, I can write two to three books at a time and it usually never takes long. Easy money.” I knew he thought it was drug money and I hadn't wanted him to voice those thoughts. It wasn't so much the assumption that bothered me but more the perception of my person that he seemed to have and for some inexplicable reason, I wanted him to see me, which was more than worrying.

“I apologize for assuming things. The most logical conclusion is not always the right conclusion,” he sounded unexpectedly honest, almost vulnerable and it was hard to tell if it was real or not. It certainly made me uncomfortable though and I had to break eye contact, looking down at my hands.

“Logic is only half of the equation, without emotional context, you will never truly understand what you see. That's what my Papa used to say to me.” The 'before everything fell apart' I left unsaid but I believed he could hear it anyway, it was the most logical continuation after all.   
  
We lapsed into silence after the unexpected vulnerability we had both glimmered of the other, giving us both enough material to think about. At least that was my excuse, I could not tell why he remained quiet, though I certainly did not mind. What I did mind was the ever growing intrigue I felt, which irritated me to no end. I had to be careful, very careful, around this one it seemed.


	3. Chapter 3

The basement flat was dreadful, there was no other way to put it. Damp, dusty and smelling of mould, there was only window at one side of the living room, next to a door that led out back and it barely illuminated the space and aside from a dusty fireplace, it was completely empty. The only plus side was the exceedingly nice, but very talkative landlady Mrs. Hudson who reminded me of my aunt Hildegard who had unfortunately passed a few years ago.  
  
I certainly did not want to move into this place, the low ceiling, typical for basement apartments, was making me slightly claustrophobic, not to mention the immense work I would need to put into this hovel to make it actually liveable. The lack of furniture was the least that was wrong with this apartment.  
  
“My sofa is very comfortable. And with how Watson can't seem to stop jabbering on about you, he might even be inclined to let you have his bed,” Sherlock stated innocently as I returned from the room in the back, a bedroom with an en-suite that looked slightly better than the front room.  
  
Of course I knew what he was doing, showing me this terrible apartment so I would have to take him up on his offer of staying in his, which had no doubt been his intention all along. I could just as well simply leave and take up room at another motel, but once again I found myself wanting to do the opposite, just to spite him.

“I'll take it. And I would like to move in right away if that is alright with you.” I smiled winningly at the elderly landlady who was beaming back at me, delighted I was taking the dingy basement off her hands no doubt, prattling on and on about how she had not been able to rent it because of the damp. No kidding, I thought to myself, but did not voice it aloud.  
  
Puttering back upstairs to get a lease, she left me alone with Sherlock and ignoring him as I had tried times before, I wandered around the room, trying to picture it redone. With effort and a few tricks here and there it might even become nice.  
  
“Tell me about Moriarty.” Rolling my eyes, though he could not see, I continued my trek, uttering out a simple, “No.” It wasn't so much that I didn't want to tell him, it was more the fact that I didn't have anything to tell. I only knew his name and that everyone was scared to death of him. Aside from that, I had nothing, only whispers that his main base of operations was in London, which was why I had come here.  
  
“You don't know.” Sherlock sounded surprised, if a little disappointed and with a sight I turned to face him, my expression grim.  
  
“I do not. The name is all I have. And that he likely is in this city. There isn't anything more and believe me, I have turned every stone I could. He is a phantom, some believe him to not even be real. Still, the mere utterance of his name causes fear.” Bitterly, I shook my head, turning away again. It was irksome that I had not been able to gather more information on the elusive Moriarty, but I knew that some way or another, I was going to find him.  
  
“That's why you agreed to this. You think he will approach me, giving you the chance to exact revenge if you keep close. He is the one that landed your father in prison. But there's more to it than that isn't there? What did he do to you?” his voice had gone soft, soothing in an attempt at lowering my defences and make me tell him everything. I was sure it worked on some people, but I certainly wasn't one of them. There were things he did not need to know, no one needed to know and I was not about to divulge them, least of all to him.  
  
“I will take the sofa until the apartment is finished. Saves me money if I don't have to check into another motel. Might take a week or two. Hopefully less.” Deflection was not going to work on him, I was aware of that, but I had nothing else to say. I was spared his response by Mrs. Hudson's return and after singing the lease and handing over the deposit in cash, I was given the keys to what was now my new apartment.  
  
My completely empty apartment. With damp walls and hidden mould, a far cry from what I had been used to. Needing a little pick me up after the dreadful morning that I had, I evicted Sherlock from the apartment, locked up and went on my merry way, intent on doing a little window shopping for household items I would need. To my utter relief, Holmes did not insist on accompanying me and I soon found myself wandering down the streets of North London, interestedly eyeing a beautiful 1920s marble top sideboard through an elegantly lighted shop window.  
  
“Impeccable taste. Young people tend to prefer those unimaginative pieces they call modern but I can see you do not share this horrid preference.” Cultured and with just a hint of amusement, the voice was one I recognized and keeping my eyes on the display, I smiled wistfully.  
  
“I do not. There can be elegance in the simplistic but I find myself drawn to things that have history, that endure the passage of time whilst retaining their beauty, despite the marks left behind, even because of it mayhaps. A fine allegory for humankind as well, though one might argue about the beauty of it.” Tearing my eyes away from the sideboard, I tilted my head to smile at the man next to me, chuckling a little as I raised my umbrella.  
  
“It seems we have something in common Mr. Holmes. Though mine does not have a hidden weapon I'm afraid. I might have to remedy that, it is a marvellous idea.” Mr. Holmes smiled back at me, but it did not reach his eyes which remained guarded, calculating. He was obviously not sure yet what to make of me.  
  
“It has served me rather well over the years, I admit. Would you care to join me on a ride?” He gestured behind him where the obligatory dark town car stood, no assistant in sight this time. As polite as he had formulated his request, I was under no illusion that it was more of an order and less of a question so I inclined my head and started towards the car.  
  
Due to his long legs, he easily beat me to it and opened the back door for me. Mr. Holmes the older definitely was more of a gentleman than his younger brother, not that I was truly surprised. The inside was what I had expected, cream leather seats that moulded to my body as I settled myself behind the driver, the smell of leather, paper and a whiff of expensive cologne encasing my senses.  
  
The partition between driver and passengers was up, giving the illusion of privacy and I smiled to myself, perching my umbrella next to me against the door. He did not speak until we pulled away and back into the busy streets, then he turned to look at me. I knew what was coming, inwardly bracing myself.  
  
“Eloise Rebekah Stein, born on the 25th of May in Hamburg Germany to renowned publisher Harald Stein and his wife Maria, who died a few years later from an aggressive form of ovarian cancer. Did your father start to dabble in drugs before or after your mother's death?” All of this was said with a cold kind of detachment and so I answered in kind, the wounds no longer fresh which made it easy.  
  
“Neither. I was the one that build and operated the drug ring. I started it when I was thirteen, mostly because I was bored out of my mind. My father just was the one that payed the price for my mistakes as you no doubt already know. What you might not know however is that I had long since abandoned that pursuit, falling victim to the trade myself. Another took over my place without me knowing about it. I only learned of it when my father was arrested.” Saying it aloud hurt more than I had expected and I had to avert my eyes form his penetrating stare, familiar guilt licking up my spine. I had been so foolish as a young girl, believing myself above the laws of justice and those of morality. A grave mistake I had payed for dearly.  
  
“I had suspected as much. Almost a year spend in rehab does not make for good business. What I have been unable to determine is what you did with the money. I imagine it must've been quite a lot after maintaining the operation for five years, quite successfully from what I could gather.” Breathing deeply, I lifted my head, my faculties back under control again as I gave him a tight smile.  
  
“Originally I had wanted to burn it. It was tainted, brought through misery and despair but it was still money, regardless of its origins. So instead I donated it, all of it. Dispersed it into smaller amounts, all anonymously and with enough time in between as to not arouse suspicions, scattered all over the world to various institutions and charities. This way, at least something good came out of the misery I brought upon my family.” Just a small widening of his eyes, gone so quick I would not have noticed had I not been studying him so closely was the only real reaction I received. But it was enough to tell me that, not unlike his brother, he had drawn conclusions that, while logical, did not come close to the truth.

“Eloise Stein died three years ago in a tragic fire that burned the house she had lived in with her father to the ground. Pulling your own teeth must've been a gruelling task I imagine.” That actually made me laugh, my tongue instinctively running over the implants inside my mouth.

“It was not pleasant, but necessary. I had to disappear before I would've inevitably ended up like my poor father. A small price to pay considering,” I said lightly, hiding how painful the reminder was. Not the teeth of course, but my Papa and what had happened to him. His loss had left a gaping hole inside my chest that could never be filled again and it was not made better by the knowledge that it had all been my fault.

“Did he know it was you? Or did he die thinking he was framed without reason?” Mr. Holmes asked in the same cold detachment, though I believed to hear a hint of sympathy, but it might as well could've been just wishful thinking.

“He knew. I told him everything the first chance I got but he insisted I don't tell anyone. He was more than willing to take the fall for something that was not his doing, all to protect me. My father was a good man, Mr. Holmes and there are only few of those in this world. He did not deserve what happened to him.” My voice had grown cold and hard, rage no doubt shimmering in my eyes and as I looked down at my lap, taking a deep breath to calm myself, I noted how my hands had turned into white-knuckled fists. Relaxing them, I closed my eyes to centre myself. This was exactly why I did not enjoy, nor wanted, to talk about this. It was hard to control my anger sometimes.

“Did it occur to you that it was all a ploy to flush you out? Make you come looking for him?” Opening my eyes, I glanced at the man next to me, my features grim as I chuckled mirthlessly.

“Of course. Which is why I faked my own death and took on my great-grandmothers maiden name. I don't like to play games, especially if they're rigged against me,” I replied pointedly. Mr. Holmes might look unassuming, but I was not fooled. There was obviously something he wanted from me, likely pertaining to his brother and I hoped he would get to it soon, too many bad memories had been stirred during this ride and I wanted off.

Pursing his lips, he turned to look out the window at the passing city streets, the greyness of the outside matching my rapidly declining mood. He remained silent for a rather long time and I covertly studied his distinct profile, the sharp nose and fleeing forehead, the auburn tinged receding hairline that unmistakably stated his advanced age. He was not conventionally attractive, but he had an air of power and unapproachability around him that I found rather enthralling. I had noticed a gold band on the ring-finger of his right hand, but I was certain that he was not indeed married and that there was another story behind this ring.

“While I cannot, in good conscience to my position, condone the act of murder, I would be inclined to assure immunity should it come to that. The individual whom we have been speaking off, has caused me and this country a great amount of unpleasantness and I would be grateful to whomever eliminated this problem. However,” swivelling his head so he was speaking to me and not the window, he pinned me with an utmost serious look, a clear warning in his eyes that instinctively made me straighten, “I do not wish for my dear brother to get involved anymore than he already is. Since he is so very reluctant to share anything with me, I would need someone on the inside who can provide me with information as to how far inside a certain someone's net he has tangled himself in, so precautions can be taken. I would be willing to pay for such a service naturally.” He ended is explanation with the semblance of what I assumed he believed to be a charming smile, though it charmed me for entirely different reasons. Mr. Holmes was an odd duck, but I had always liked the odd things and he was no different, despite the rather unpleasant nature of our business.

I certainly could not use a distraction like that, but then again, he might become useful in the future, his position with the government could potentially open doors for me that had been locked before and thus I gave him my most dazzling smile, my secret weapon, and I could see it had an effect on him, though he did try to hide it behind his stoic mask.

“It would be my pleasure to help you. But I do not need monetary reimbursement. I would much rather like to have dinner with you, say once every two weeks to inform you of my findings? You are a very interesting man and I find myself as intrigued by you as you are by me. I'm not looking for sentimental attachments but pleasant company is always appreciated. There is so little to find of that, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Holmes?” I didn't go as far as to make my voice huskier or flutter my lashes at him, but I made my tone teasing, noting the same flicker of unease I had noted in his brother when confronted with this kind of thing. How very interesting. I had clearly flustered him and he had to clear his throat before he answered, which made my smile widen almost painfully. If I was not mistaken, the tips of his ears had turned a faint pink, adorable really.

“Mycroft if you please. And I do agree, good company is hard to find these days. But alas I'm a busy man as you might imagine, which leaves me little time for pleasantries such as dinners with attractive young women. I might be able to reschedule a few things however, though I cannot promise anything.” To my surprise, I actually blushed when he called me attractive, which was decidedly odd since I was not prone to such a thing, but he clearly liked it, the edges of his lips twitching as he tried not to smirk smugly. Men were always the same, no matter their level of intelligence I had found. Biology got to everyone in the end, even the most stoic and level-headed. Placing a hand against my heated cheek, I let out a small chuckle, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I smiled a genuine smile. He had deserved it after making me blush like a school girl.

“That is perfectly fine, I wasn't expecting you to agree at all if I'm being honest. And since I am currently being honest, I will let you in on a little secret,” leaning a little closer, I lowered my voice, pleased when he leaned in as well, his pupils dilating a smidgen when I licked my lips.

“Despite appearances, I'm not well versed in the art of seduction. Of course I understand the mechanics and psychology behind it but not much more than that. I just thought it might ease your mind to learn that I am no femme fatale, quite the opposite.” His pupils dilated a little more at the implication and I settled back into my seat, playing up my vulnerability after such a confession with a soft smile as I lowered my eyes. Mycroft cleared his throat again, the atmosphere inside the car having shifted from detached professionalism to something else that made my belly flutter a little. I had to keep an eye on that, lest I wanted it to morph into something I could not, and would not risk.

“Were you anyone else, I would not believe a beautiful woman such as yourself to be inexperienced in that regard, but as those things often elude me as well, I don't doubt the honesty of your confession and I thank you for sharing it with me. I will contact you as soon as I have freed some time. Until then, let me say it was rather delightful to speak to you and I am looking forward to do it again.” As if on cue, the car came to a halt and gazing out the window, I realized with a start that we were back at Baker Street. I had been so focused on Mycroft that I had not noticed where we were going, which was a tiny bit worrying.

Not waiting for a reply, he got out of the car, holding the door open for me and I got out as gracefully as I could. We were standing pretty close and it made me realize how tall he was compared to me, I had to crane my neck a little to actually look at his face and I felt my cheeks heat once more. I truly hoped this wasn't going to become a new trend.

“I look forward to it as well. Good day, Mycroft,” I sounded a little breathless, very much unlike myself and he gave me a half-smile, his eyes glittering with male satisfaction as he inclined his head and I lowered mine as I began walking away.

“Good day to you as well, Eloise.” His reply was soft, a mere whisper on the wind, but I had heard regardless, biting back a smile as I stepped up the two stairs to 221 b and opened the door, glancing back over my shoulder just before stepping inside.

He was staring after me, waiting until I was in the building I assumed and feeling another flutter in my belly, I quickly got in, closing the door behind me. Leaning my forehead against it, I huffed out a breath, my eyes closed as I tried to centre myself again.

“I had no idea my brother was dabbling in furniture.” And there went my centre. Sherlock sounded less than pleased, glowering down at me when I reluctantly turned around, spotting him atop the stairs that led to his apartment, which I had yet to see.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think it's any of your business with whom I associate,” I replied tersely and he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that nearly made the buttons on his shirt pop off. He might want to invest in some less tight clothes, I doubted this was very practical, restricting more like it.

“It is my business when it pertains to my brother. Who, I might add, is a firm believer that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. So there.” He sounded like a petulant child and looked like one as well, all but pouting and I rolled my eyes, crossing my own arms to mirror his position.

“So there what? I share the same believe so I don't really see your point here. Aside form that, it's just dinner and not a proposal for marriage. You...,” I cut myself off, having already said too much as it was, falling into his trap like a complete moron. Uncrossing his arms, Sherlock looked even more indignant if that was at all possible, pointing a long, slender finger in my direction.

“Aha! So he is participating in the ridiculousness of courting. How quaint. I cannot wait to tell mother about this.” His expression changed from indignant to gleeful and he whirled around to bound back up the stairs, with me hot on his heels. I could only guess of course, but I didn't think Mycroft would want his mother to know about our dinner arrangements and to be honest, I didn't either.

“Sherlock Holmes! You will stop this foolishness instantly!” I cried after him, bursting through the open door atop the stairs into a rather dusty, stuffed living room, ignoring the man sitting in one of the armchairs in front of a fireplace as I rounded on Sherlock who already had his phone in hand, grinning from ear to ear. Snatching the phone away from him, I hid it behind my back when he tried to grab it back with an incredulous exclamation.

“No! I will not let you make me a bargaining chip you can use to badger your brother with, I'm not an object Holmes,” I told him firmly, though yelled might have been a more apt description. That man really drove me up the walls. I never yelled, never. I rarely even raised my voice.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock huffed, throwing himself onto a brown leather couch and turning his back towards the room, sulking like a toddler. I could only gape at his childish behaviour before I exaggeratedly shook my head and turned to the other occupant of the room.

“It is nice to see you again Doctor Watson. I assume you have heard the news about me moving into the basement apartment?” I tried to smile, but I was still baffled by Sherlock's behaviour and the Doctor gave me a sympathetic look, glancing over at the sulking detective.

“Yeah, I heard it from Miss Hudson. This one never tells me anything. And please, call me John, we're neighbours now,” the sandy-haired man responded, smiling up at me.

“That's what I said,” Sherlock's muffled voice stated sullenly but we both ignored him.

“Rebekah. And since certain people tend to keep things to themselves instead of sharing them with others, I assume you're not aware I'm going to stay here until my apartment is ready?” He had obviously no idea going by the frown he shot at his roomie before it morphed into genuine delight as he looked back at me, smiling still.

“You assume correctly. Are you sure it wouldn't be better to stay at a hotel though? It might not be the best of ideas to have the both of you in the same flat,” John joked, winking at me and I grinned broadly, hearing Sherlock grumble something under his breath which only made my grin widen. The Doctor certainly seemed to share in my amusement. I could only imagine how fraught it must be to live with the curly-haired man-child.

“Oh, I think I can handle him. Though I might want to invest in a spray-bottle, I hear it is very effective as a repellent for bad behaviour,” I joked back, prompting Sherlock to turn his head and scowl at me as I noticed form the corner of my eyes, partially turned away from his spot on the sofa.

“I'm not a damn cat. And it's not my fault that you keep annoying me,” I was told heatedly and my mouth fell open from the sheer audacity he had to say such a thing to me.

“Excuse you? I'm not the one that insists on being rude, or who wont stop his incessant pestering and act like a child when something goes against his sensitive proclivities. If anyone is annoying, it would be you and certainly not me!” And there I went raising my voice again, but he really made me mad with his stupid face and stupid hair and even stupider words. Scoffing, he jumped up from the couch and stormed out, taking his coat from the hanger next to the door, which he of course slammed shut, just further proving my point.

“I cannot believe this man. It really makes me wonder what his problem is,” I said to John, as I turned to face him and the Doctor contemplated me for a few seconds, weighing his words before he spoke, haltingly.

“I might be completely off, and don't tell him I said this, but I think he likes you.” He gave me a weighted look to convey what exactly he meant by like before he continued, “And I don't believe he has much experience with this sort of thing, thus the acting out. But that's just my humble opinion.”

I had no idea how to respond to that. It would certainly explain his strange behaviour, though I hardly believed this to be truly the case. Sherlock did not peg me as someone who was even interested in this sort of thing, but then again the same could be said for his brother and as I had found out, he wasn't as adverse as I had first believed. But still. This could hardly be it and I already had another explanation.

“I think he is just miffed that I outsmarted him last night. And of course that I am going to have dinner with his brother. Which I still think is none of his business.” With a weary sigh, I let myself drop into the chair across from John, rubbing a hand over my face. This was not how I had envisioned this day to proceed, not at all.

“You're having dinner with Mycroft? Why in the world would you want to do that? Did he pressure you into it?” John sounded flabbergasted at the prospect, as if the mere thought of such a thing was utterly ludicrous and it made me chuckle. I still had Sherlock's phone and placing it on a nearby table, I shrugged off my coat, rolling my shoulders.

“He did not. I was the one to suggest it. Unlike his brother, he is very well mannered and quite interesting. Do you know of any good renovators I could use for the apartment downstairs?” I had to change the topic, I no longer wanted to speak on this matter and thankfully John sensed this, firing up his laptop to help me look for companies that would be able to do what I had in mind.

Two hours and a cup of earl grey, expertly made by Doctor Watson, later, I had contracted a company to renovate the flat, as it was called in Britain, and I had also ordered a couple pieces of furniture from a delightful website that specialised on antiques to affordable prices, not that money really was an issue for me. Sherlock had not returned yet, but John had to leave for work, so I was alone inside the flat and of course I used that to inspect everything, not overly surprised to find body parts in the fridge. The state of the kitchen was rather abysmal however and because I was going to stay here for a while, I went down to my own flat to get changed into more comfortable clothes before borrowing cleaning supplies from Mrs. Hudson since I hadn't been able to find any upstairs.

Cleaning also had the added effect of soothing me and before I knew it, the entire flat was scrubbed from top to bottom, though I made sure to place everything exactly as I had found it. It wasn't my place to order things, I just wanted to remove the dust and dirt. Which I was now covered in, so the next order of business was to take a shower and clean myself. For that, I went back downstairs, stealing a towel from Sherlock's bathroom on my way out, seeing as I did not own any.

I could've just as easily showered upstairs, but it was already starting to get dark outside and I had no idea when Sherlock might be back and didn't want to risk him barging in on me. Someone like him surely had no respect for others privacy. But I should've taken my suitcase with me or at least a change of clothes instead of walking stark naked back into the main room, pressing excess water out of my hair with the towel I had stolen, nearly having a heart attack when I saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, staring at my exposed body.

With a shriek, I fled back into what was going to be my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me, my heart beating fast as a hummingbirds wings in my chest as I stared wide-eyed at nothing. I had not expected him to be there and least of all for him to see me naked. This was most embarrassing but what was worse was the fact that he had not left like I hoped he would, at least I had not heard him. Wrapping the towel around myself, I cracked open the door and peeked outside, breathing a sigh of relief when I was greeted with the sight of an empty room, the front door standing wide open. I must not have heard his retreat over my pounding heart and I quickly hurried across the room to close and lock the door, leaning my back against it as I thought over what to do now.

I could either pretend that nothing had happened which would likely be in Sherlock's interest as well, or I could hide in my empty flat like a scared little girl. So I got dressed again, going for casual jeans and a long-sleeved shirt instead of slacks and a blouse and after a few minutes of hesitation, I resolutely unlocked my door and went back upstairs, confidently striding into the flat, though I did not feel particularly confident at the moment. There was a distinct lack of curly hair up here and I wondered if he had left again, spooked by what had happened which I could not fault him for, the thought had come to me as well.

The air smelled of wood-polish and cleaners, seemingly undisturbed from when I had left so I surmised he had actually went somewhere else. I was still feeling agitated, uncomfortably so, and I felt my hand twitch in a familiar way that worried me greatly. I needed to find a distraction and fast. My eyes fell on the violin, lying on the coffee table in front of the sofa and I gnawed on my bottom lip, indecisive if I should pick up another's instrument. Then again, the person owing said instrument was the reason for my turmoil so it seemed only fair to me in that moment.

I had not touched any kind of instrument for a long time and melancholy overcame me as I perched the violin on my shoulder, the familiar weight and smell taking me back to a time where life had seemed so much easier. Without bothering to make a tune check, I closed my eyes and began to play, a little rusty at first before muscle memory set in, carrying me away to the past on wings of notes, so sweet and dreadful at the same time. In my minds eye, I could see myself, playing the very same piece for my Papa, a mere child at the time, wide-eyed and oblivious to the wretchedness that was reality.

My father had loved to hear me play and though I had preferred folk music over classical, I had learned several classical pieces just for him, to make him happy and elicit that special smile he only ever reserved for me. I would never see this smile again, never feel the warmth of his embrace or the soft press of his lips against my forehead when he kissed me goodnight. Anger and a sadness so deep it could rival the depth of the ocean consumed me, the piece I was playing morphing into something else entirely, an audible representation of my broken soul, urgent and almost mad one second, slow and heartbreakingly sweet the next.

I poured everything into the music, every ounce of sadness, anger and confusion I was feeling, playing until my fingers began to hurt and my neck cramped but still I did not stop, unable to as if my body had a mind of its own, shackling me to this task for eternity. My eyes were tightly screwed shut, but I could feel the tears running down my face in a never ending rivulet as I played my heart out until it stopped hurting so badly I thought I might die. Only then did I let the last notes linger in the air around me and opened my eyes, my vision blurred and unfocused.

“I'm sorry.” I startled at the baritone from behind me, quickly wiping away my tears before I turned around to meet Sherlock's eyes, the lanky detective perched in the chair I had sat in earlier. I had a sense of deja-vu at the honesty in his words and he made no move to hide that his eyes were shimmering with emotion and unshed tears. It was likely the most vulnerable I was ever going to see him and I smiled sadly, blinking against a fresh wave of wetness in my own eyes. I felt raw, exposed but for some reason it did not bother me as much as it should.

“That was beautiful, truly. Even brought a tear to my eye if you can believe it. But next time, please ask before touching my things.” And there was the Sherlock I had come to know, the moment already passed again as he gave me a smirk, though I could see a lingering glimmer of sympathy in his multicoloured eyes.

“Maybe if you stop behaving like a baby, I will consider asking you next time,” I shot back, turning away to place the violin back where I had found it, covertly wiping my eyes again as I sniffled quietly.

“On second thought, if it keeps you from hurting yourself, feel free to play whenever you like. Wouldn't want my brother to pester me because I didn't look out for his girlfriend.” Niceties rolled up in biting remarks felt certainly more like our dynamic and playing along, I scoffed, turning to face him again.

“I'm not his girlfriend and you damn well know that. Really Sherlock, is it so unimaginable for you that someone actually likes your brother? I imagine you did too at some point at least. Cut him some slack, will you?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, scoffing much the same way I had as if my suggestion was ridiculous at best and I felt the edges of my lip twitch. Man-child indeed.

“And you're already defending him, great. He would be delighted no doubt. Tell me, how did he get you to agree to dinner with him? I'm curious to learn what tricks he has up his sleeve,” he smirked at me, clearly trying to rile me up but I appreciated it for it was, an obvious attempt at lifting my spirits. He could be sweet if he wanted to it seemed, in his own strange way of course.

“Oh please, you know exactly he would never suggest such a thing and that I was the one who brought it up. Even if he had any tricks, you certainly wouldn't know what to do with them.” I gave him one of my sugary smiles and he visibly bristled, his lips thinning as he narrowed his eyes at me.

“Not everyone indulges themselves in carnal desires. It's a waste of time in my opinion. But please, go right ahead, maybe it might actually manage to make my brother a little more bearable,” Sherlock sneered and I unexpectedly snorted, exasperatedly shaking my head.

“Ah, my dear Sherlock. You seem to be under the assumption that I intend to seduce your brother, which I can assure you, I am not,” I chuckled out and something seemed to have come to him then, the sneer dropping from his face as he stared back at me, disbelief colouring his features.

“You're a virgin,” he pointed out rather astutely and I rolled my eyes again, walking off toward the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, calling out over my shoulder.

“Bravo, Mr. Holmes. You figured it out. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea as well, as a price for your amazing observational skills?” I glanced back at him, raising a questioning brow, smirking when he glowered back at me before looking away, mumbling something under his breath I was sure was not something nice.

“We're out of milk,” was what he said aloud and I trying to ignore the pain in my abused fingers, I took two cups out of the cupboard, placing them on the counter before reaching for the tea-kettle to fill it with water.

“Another amazing observation my dear Holmes. Luckily I managed to procure some from your nice landlady and put it in the fridge next to the severed fingers. Which morgue did you get them from? I might pay them a visit.” Over the water rushing from the tap, I didn't hear him approach and I nearly dropped the halfway full kettle when he sounded closer, much closer.

“You're fingers are bleeding.” Wincing, I looked down at my fingers and he was right, they were bleeding if only a little. I really hoped I hadn't bled on his violin, that would truly be a shame, it was a very nice instrument.

“They're not used to excessive playing, not anymore. Do you have some bandages?” I kept my eyes on my fingers and before I had not really felt anything aside from a slight burning, but the longer I looked, the more they seemed to hurt. As if acknowledging the small lacerations made them more real.

I let go of the kettle and rubbed my fingertips together, smearing the little drops of blood on them, my head snapping up when someone touched my shoulder. It was Sherlock, a crease between his brow, his eyes flickering to my fingers and then to my face and I slightly shook my head to clear my thoughts, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry. I have a thing with blood, particularly my own. It's nothing to worry about. Thanks for the bandages.” I took them out of his hand and turned, his hand slipping from my shoulder as I leaned away to clean my fingers, washing off the blood.

“Why did you stop playing?” My shoulders tensed and I stilled, blinking rapidly. The question had caught me off guard and I wasn't able to suppress my reaction to it. I debated with myself if I should tell him or not, but I could feel it creeping up my spine, crawling beneath my skin and it would be good if someone looked out for me tonight. Someone who I knew would understand.

“I relapsed after my father died in prison. I used to play when I was high, often for hours on end. It's so interwoven in my mind, the violin, my father, the emotions it invoked, the happiness I had, that I couldn't so much as look at a violin anymore without it triggering me. I haven't touched one in almost four years, much less played it.” From my peripheral vision, I saw Sherlock nodding to himself as if I had merely confirmed his suspicions, which was likely the case and surely why he had asked me this question in the first place. For another addict, the signs were glaringly obvious.

I hadn't had an episode like this in quite some time, but I also had not been as idle as I had been since coming here, before, my time had been consumed by gathering information and accumulating resources. Most importantly, I had had little contact with anyone aside from emails I exchanged with my publisher and being around people this much was not something I was used to anymore. It was taxing, more so than I could've anticipated and the events of last night and today were starting to take its toll on me it seemed. Having time to think was never a good thing, not for me.

Sherlock leaned past me to pick up the kettle, taking over the tea making whilst I bandaged my fingers. Neither of us said anything, but the atmosphere was decidedly tense. I hoped I hadn't triggered him. I shouldn't have said anything.

“Ever tried nicotine patches?” He wasn't looking at me, busying himself with rummaging through the cupboards and placing the last bandage, I leaned my back against the sink and crossed my arms, frowning.

“No. I tried nicotine gum once but it was absolutely disgusting. Why do you ask?” Making a sound in the back of his throat he pulled a small box from of the cupboard and took two small rectangular patches out, handing them to me.

“Try it. Believe me, it helps.” He gave me a weighted look and pursing my lips, I took his offering, rolled up my sleeves and removed the little paper at the back of the fist patch, slapping it on my arm. If he believed it was going to help, I wasn't about to argue with him. Though I would kill for a real cigarette right about now.

“Not as good as the real thing of course, but an adequate substitute. Give it a few minutes,” Sherlock said conversationally, watching me like a hawk as I put the second patch on as well. I could feel his eyes on my wrist but I figured he had already seen it earlier when I had unexpectedly flashed him. Rolling my sleeve back down, I rubbed my arm where the patches were, they felt uncomfortable, much like the bandages on my fingers.

“St. Bartholomew’s morgue. That's where I got the fingers from. Do you want to assist me with an experiment?” I really had nothing better to do and certainly needed a good distraction, so I agreed. It was actually a pleasant experience and did take my mind off of things, though it still niggled in the back of my mind, but that was to be expected.

  
  
Around three in the morning, when I could no longer hide my yawns, he shooed me off to bed, his bed to be exact, arguing that he didn't need it at the moment when I began protesting, albeit weakly, much too tired to put up any real fight. Thus I found myself in his room, bare as it was, surrounded by his smell as I fell asleep on his very comfortable bed, unaware of the eyes that kept watch.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good morning, Rebekah. Tea?" John greeted me the next morning when I groggily stumbled out of Sherlock's room and I made a non-committal sound, somewhere between a grunt and a groan, as I rubbed my crusty eyes. I had slept surprisingly well, at least for a few hours, until the usual nightmares returned, but I still had gotten more sleep than I was used to, so I saw it as a win.  
  
"Not a morning person I see," the good Doctor chuckled and I blinked at him, my brain a little sluggish from just having woken up, so it took me a moment to respond.  
  
"Good morning to you as well John. And tea would be lovely, thank you," I finally replied, my voice scratchy and sounding just as tired as I still felt.  
  
"Sherlock's already off somewhere, so it's just me and you this morning. Did you clean the flat?" Letting out a yawn behind my hand, I nodded, pulling out a kitchen chair to sit down, pushing aside the remnants of the experiment from last night to lean my arms on the table.  
  
"Sure did. The place was filthy. Not that I expected anything else from two bachelors living together. What time is it anyway?" There had been no clock in Sherlock's room but the sun was obviously up, so I would guess it was about eight thirty in the morning, going by the sun's position and my usual sleep pattern.  
  
"Almost nine. Aren't the contractors going to be here soon?" John's question made me jump up as I let out a curse, having completely forgotten about that with everything else that had been happening.

Running down the stairs, I slowed down when I noticed the door to my flat cracked open, and already having a hunch as to why that might be, I gritted my teeth, flying down the last steps before barging into my flat. Where I of course found Sherlock, standing over my open suitcase with his hands on his hips.  
  
"A little over a million dollars. You could've just asked you know," I greeted him irritatedly and he glanced at me, raising his brow.  
  
"I was making sure you didn't have certain substances in there. I also brought breakfast," he pointed towards the kitchen and lo and behold, there stood a paper bag with the logo of the sandwich shop next door on it.  
  
"Huh," I replied very intelligently, because this was actually very thoughtful of him and it made me decidedly uncomfortable. In the harsh light of day, I regretted how vulnerable I had let him see me last night and I was unsure over how to handle myself around him now.  
  
Last night, we had kind of bonded and it was odd to me to say the least, making me wonder how he felt about all this. Then I remembered that people were going to arrive soon and shouldering him out of the way, I kneeled down, zipping up my suitcase.  
  
"Thanks." Hopefully my voice conveyed that I was thanking him for more than just breakfast and he searched my face as I stood up, before he nodded, acknowledging my gratitude.  
  
"Don't let it become a habit. I got better things to do with my time than playing babysitter." Ah, this was much better. Sarcastic, snarky Sherlock I knew how to handle, thoughtful and considerate Sherlock not so much. This was easier, by far.  
  
"Like what? Figuring out the different kinds of tobacco ash?" I joked but by the way his brows furrowed and he looked away, I figured that was actually something he had already done.  
  
"It could prove helpful during an investigation to have that kind of knowledge," he defended himself rather indignantly and I rolled my eyes, picking up my suitcase.  
  
"Sure. It most certainly was not just a convenient excuse to smoke," I couldn't help but taunt him and Sherlock let out a huff, but I saw his lip twitch, despite his sour expression. Seemed as if he was more comfortable with this as well.  
  


* * *

  
It took a little over two weeks until the basement flat was ready and I had to admit, the result was better than I had expected. The damp was gone, as well as the mouldy smell that had permeated the air and it was renovated and fully furnished.   
  
The living room walls had been painted in a light mocha tone that gave the room warmth, as did the heavy wooden furniture, all vintage of course. I had bought the sideboard I had admired in that shop in North London, because it would've been a crime not to buy it. I had had the carpet ripped out and replaced with dark Laminate, much easier to clean and less susceptible to mould. Next to the fireplace stood two heavy bookshelves, still empty at the moment, and a velvet settee in a deep burgundy, joined by two armchairs of the same material and colour, stood in front of the fireplace, a beautiful burl walnut coffee table in between.   
  
The kitchen was simple, nothing fancy since I rarely cooked anyway, but I most liked my bedroom with its lavender walls and beautiful cherry-wood four-poster canopy. I might have splurged a little on that one, but when I had seen it online, I just had to have it. Intricately carved columns and veneers, over-scaled finials and a gorgeous headboard with carved flowers and vines. Beautiful.   
  
I had yet to decorate the place, my focus had mainly been on furniture but as I stood inside the flat, inhaling the lingering smell of paint, I realized that I wanted to stay here. It felt homey in a way my old apartment back in Germany had not, despite the relatively bareness, though it probably had more to do with the occupants of the upstairs flat.   
  
In the last two weeks, I had spend a lot of my time with Sherlock and John, and one could say we had become friends. Well, John and I at least, I wasn't so sure about Sherlock. Ever since my danger night, as I tended to call those occurrences in my head, he had become a little distant and I couldn't say I minded all that much. We still regularly squabbled, much to John's annoyance, but it didn't feel quite the same as it had been.  
  
I had yet to hear from Mycroft, but there wasn't much to tell anyway, though I had heard from my publisher. Someone had requested me to write their book and although I hadn't intended to start any new projects, the outline of the book had appealed to me, so I had agreed. It would give me something to do when neither Sherlock nor John were at home and it would also keep my mind off of things.   
  
It was about a girl who grew up in a crime syndicate, her father head of it, and she desperately wanted to get out, faking her own death to accomplish that. The book was going to be a thriller in which the reader would follow this girl on her run from her father's men. There were some similarities to my own story, which was why I had agreed to take on this project.   
  
The only other piece of furniture in the living room, an antique walnut roll-top desk, stood adjacent to the fireplace on the other side of the room and I had been typing for a few hours, making good progress when my door banged open and a certain curly-haired consulting Detective stormed in, a displeased expression on his face as he aggressively handed me his phone.   
  
"It's my brother. Get yourself a phone," he grumpily told me and I bit back a smirk as I took the phone out of his hand, putting it against my ear.   
  
"Mycroft, what a pleasant surprise," I greeted the older Holmes while watching the younger sulk over to my settee and sitting down in a huff.  
  
"As much as it pains me to say this, my dear brother is right. It is exceedingly cumbersome trying to contact you without you owning a phone my dear." A blush coloured my cheeks at the term of endearment and Sherlock let out a scoff when he noticed, looking as if he was smelling something disgusting. Turning my back on him, I played with a pen I had lying on my desk to give my fingers something to do.   
  
"Well, then I must of course go and buy one for myself. I wouldn't want to make things hard for you." And here I was, flirting with him, blushing even more and I heard him clear his throat at the same time as Sherlock let out a pained groan.   
  
Whirling back around, I shot him a glare, that was likely ruined by how red my face was, because he certainly looked unimpressed, rolling his eyes at me.   
  
"In any case, I would be free this evening if you don't already have plans," Mycroft continued and I felt that flutter in my belly again like I had during our last meeting. Biting down on my bottom lip, I contemplated if I still wanted to go through with this dinner idea I had had, but Sherlock's obvious annoyance made me agree, just because I could.   
  
"I would be delighted to accompany you to dinner tonight. Though I have to warn you, I might not eat all that much. I never do when working on a project, slows me down." There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line and I removed the phone from my ear to see if the call got disconnected, but it hadn't apparently. Placing it back against my ear, I looked over a at Sherlock, but he had his back to me now.   
  
"The company will still be pleasant regardless. I will pick you up at eight. Until then, Eloise," Mycroft finally responded and whatever had prompted him to remain silent was not audible in his voice which was as smooth and cool as I had come to know it.   
  
"Until then, Mycroft." The line went dead and I once more frowned down at the phone, wondering what that had been all about. Surely he didn't care about my eating habits?   
  
"If you're quite finished I would like that back." A hand appeared in my line of vision and I wordlessly placed the phone in it before turning back to my laptop. It was still a while before eight and I had work to do until then.   
  
I could still feel him standing behind me, making me itch between the shoulders but I felt a little too flustered to deal with him right now. Unfortunately I was also too flustered to write any more so with a sigh, I closed my laptop and turned back around, my annoyance hopefully visible to him.   
  
"What is it Holmes?" His nose twitched at my use of his last name, but instead of answering, he just stared back at me, his eyes narrowed. Fed up with this game, I sighed again as I stood up and pushed past him, going into my bedroom to open my wardrobe.   
  
It was mostly empty, I didn't bring much in terms of clothing when I came to London, but I had been thoughtful enough to take a few dresses with me which I eyed critically. I usually preferred slacks, but this was dinner and I wanted to look nice for it. Maybe I would even do something other with my hair than just the tight bun I usually wore for practicalities sakes. My hair had grown quite long, reaching almost down to my waist, but I was reluctant to cut it, regardless of how irritating it was sometimes, especially the amount of time it took to dry after washing it.   
  
Taking out a forest green sheath dress, I pursed my lips, regarding it for a moment before hanging it back, my hand hovering over a navy blue pencil dress.   
  
"If you insist on staying, you might as well help me with this," I told Sherlock, whom I saw hovering at the door of my bedroom and he sniffed, crossing his arms.   
  
"I'm not a personal stylist," he informed me irritatedly and I rolled my eyes, a common occurrence when it came to him.   
  
"Then please leave. I hate hovering," I replied just as irritated and with a huff, he walked away, the door to my flat slamming shut shortly after.   
  
I could hear him stomping up the stairs and once more rolled my eyes as I shook my head in exasperation. Why he couldn't just say what he wanted to say I had no idea, but it wasn't my job to pull information out of him. Well it was, kind of, considering the arrangement I had made with his brother. Which brought me back to the problem at hand and to the sounds of Sherlock stomping about upstairs, I decided to go with the pencil dress. Sophisticated and form-fitting seemed like the right way to go.

  
  
At seven thirty, I was ready, putting the last touches on the light make-up I had donned, just a little mascara and red-tinted lip gloss, I greatly disliked smearing concealer and all those other things on my face, it always made me feel as if my skin was suffocating. I had to admit, I looked rather good, the navy material of my dress clinging tastefully to my body and the long sleeves hid my arms from view.   
  
I had even put a pair of small diamond studs in my ears, which twinkled back at me when I turned my head this way and that to inspect my hair. Partially braided against my head, it fell in thick waves down my back, a few carefully arranged strands framing my face and I smiled at my reflection, pleased with the result.   
  
Stepping back into my bedroom, I slipped into a pair of black heels that made me a few centimetres taller than my 1,62 m but Mycroft would still tower over me with how tall he was. I was actually feeling a little giddy, but also nervous since I had never been on a date before, if one could even classify it as such. Then again, I had never been to dinner with a man that wasn't related to me, so in any case it would be a new and, hopefully, interesting experience.   
  
This time, I wasn't even surprised when I saw Sherlock sitting on my settee, though he certainly was when he turned and his eyes fell on me. Feeling playful, I gave a little twirl, and opened my arms, grinning mischievously.   
  
"What do you think?" He visibly swallowed and it made a tingle run up my spine that I had managed to make him react this way to me, though I pushed it away, not particularly intent on opening that can of worms. Catching himself, his face returned to its usual mask-like appearance, no longer showing his surprise and I let my arms fall to my sides again, tilting my head. Whatever he was about to say would be no doubt scathing in some way.   
  
"I think my brother has no idea what he is getting into. Try not to turn him into a bumbling fool." He stood up and made to leave and I assumed this was the closest to complimenting me as he would come, but he surprised me when he stopped just outside my door, one foot already on the first step.   
  
"You look lovely." It was said so quietly that I almost didn't hear it and he hadn't turned around, so I couldn't see his face, though I felt my own heat. Before I could respond, he was already gone, leaving me with very conflicting emotions that I pushed aside, just as I had done with the tingle or every other strange reaction I had had over the course of our acquaintance.   
  
Of course I was aware of my attraction to him, but I didn't want to deal with it, ignoring it as best I could because I would never pursue such a thing, not with him. He had seen me at my most vulnerable already, there was really no need to make matters worse in my opinion. Aside from that, he clearly had no interest in such a thing, much like myself, though apparently this attitude did not pertain to his brother. Then again, Mycroft was certainly a different story.   
  
Eight o'clock on the dot, I already stood in front of the house, having been too anxious to wait inside and a smile grazed my lips when a black town car pulled up, exactly on time. I made my way over just as my dinner companion for the evening exited the car, a semblance of a smile curling his lips when his eyes fell on me.   
  
"Good evening, Eloise. Might I say, you look enchanting tonight," he greeted me and I let out a tinkling laugh, my cheeks no doubt coloured pink.   
  
"Thank you and good evening to you too, Mycroft. Only a few seconds in and you already have me blushing. I might not make it through dinner if you keep this up," I cheekily replied, winking at him before I let my own eyes wander over his tall frame.   
  
"And you look as handsome as the last time I saw you. Shall we?" He was clearly amused at my flirting and I had to admit it came very easily, I knew he didn't have expectations that went further than conversation and food, thus not making me feel uncomfortable, though I was still a little nervous.   
  
"We shall. I have made reservations at a superb little restaurant that makes the most delicious almond glazed salmon. I thought something light might tempt you to eat," he replied and I detected a slight tease in his tone as I slipped into the car, making me smile.  
  
"That is very thoughtful of you. And it does sound very delicious. Though I'm afraid I have not much to tell you pertaining to your brother."   
  
"I am certain we can find other topics of discussion than my little brother," He had taken his seat next to me, shooting me a bemused look and I chuckled with a shake of my head.   
  
"Oh, I'm sure we can."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!
> 
> I know it has been a little while since I last updated and the next chapter might even be a longer while still. Due to some health issues, mainly the fact that I apparently have developed micro-cysts in both my wrists which have me in almost constant pain, writing is very uncomfortable at the moment. As you can maybe guess, it also doesn't help much in terms of motivation. Medication isn't doing much unfortunately and there is a good possibility that I need to have surgery at some point, yay me...
> 
> But enough about that now, I hope you enjoy this chapter and feel free to tell me what you think about it! Also, thank you very much to everyone who left kudos or a comment, it really makes my day to see people enjoy the crap I write!

And we did. It was liberating to have a real conversation where I did not need to explain the jumps in my logic or had to hold back, knowing the other person wouldn't understand otherwise. Mycroft was charming, intelligent and well versed in all manners of topics and it was a delight to spend time with him. The salmon was also incredible, just as promised, even if I ate very little of it.   
  
I did realize something though. As much as I enjoyed Mycroft's company and he mine from what I could tell, I could not see this going anywhere beyond friendship. He seemed to think so as well, being the one to bring it up as we left the restaurant to take a little stroll. Working off the food he told me with a self-deprecating smile, as he offered me his arm, not that he truly needed it, at least in my opinion.   
  
"I had a wonderful time with you Eloise. But I think we can both agree that a platonic relationship would be much more fitting." His words were accompanied by a warm smile that I had had the pleasure to experience for the first time tonight and I was certain he seldomly showed it to anyone. It was flattering really.   
  
"I think so as well. This might be the beginning of a wonderful friendship. I would like to keep our dinner plans however, this was probably the most delightful one I had in a long time," I replied warmly and was rewarded with another smile.   
  
"I couldn't agree more. It is not often I encounter someone who can keep up with me. A welcome change not to have to dumb things down. Though your lack of political interest is rather abysmal my dear," he couldn't help but add and I laughed aloud, squeezing his arm.   
  
"No offence but I find politics dreadfully tedious, especially politicians. Squabbling children, most of them. Present company excluded of course." I winked at him and Mycroft chuckled, not offended by my remark. He, more than anyone, would know that I was not wrong.   
  
"Of course. And I take no offence, I had my fair share of wishing my colleagues would behave more like public servants and less like spoiled toddlers. A trait they share with my dear brother." There was something in his voice, as well as in the glance he threw me, and despite outward appearances, I was sure the mention of his brother was deliberate. What for I could not say however.   
  
"I can certainly attest to that. I pity poor Doctor Watson for having to live with him. I only had to do so for a couple weeks and was close to strangling him. Never met anyone as infuriating as your brother. Was he always like this?" I inwardly cursed myself for asking this, I didn't need, nor wanted, to learn more about the curly haired Detective, at least that was what I told myself, refusing to acknowledge anything else.   
  
"I'm afraid so. Before we met other children, I was convinced he was an idiot." That made me let out an involuntary laugh, the picture he painted amusing me to no end. I could vividly imagine the two of them, much younger and not having understood yet that they were both smarter than the average person. Mycroft was obviously the more clever one out of the two, not to mention that he was several years older than his brother. It must've come as a shock once they met people their age.   
  
My reaction prompted Mycroft to regale me with tales of his and Sherlock's youth, much to my dismay and reluctant amusement. As it turned out, my neighbour hadn't changed all that much since childhood, not that I was truly surprised. Picturing a young Sherlock pretending to be a pirate was certainly endearing.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening and gentleman that he was, Mycroft brought me up to the door after we had returned to Baker Street, surprising me by pressing a kiss to my cheek in goodbye which made me blush again. Despite having realized that I had no interest in him that way, he still managed to make my face heat for some reason, but I didn't mind anymore.

“Goodnight Eloise, sleep well,” he said with a smile of his own and I reciprocated his words before opening the front door and stepping inside, giving him a small wave as I watched him return to his car.

With a pep in my step, I hummed under my breath as I returned to my flat and turned on the lights, nearly dying of a heart-attack when it illuminated someone sitting on my settee.

“I do hope you have a good explanation for sitting here in the dark, aside from scaring me half to death that is,” I told Sherlock pointedly as I took off my coat, my heart still beating rather fast from the fright he had given me. He didn't respond however, just watched me and it made me highly uncomfortable for reasons I did not wish to go into. This really had to stop. Now.

“Just ignore it, that is what I do. Nothing good will come of it. It will pass on its own as these things tend to do.” Deliberately keeping it vague, I gave him a pointed look before striding over to the open kitchen and opening the fridge to take out a bottle of water. I wasn't really thirsty, but I needed something to occupy my twitching hands with, my anxiety levels steadily rising the longer he stayed silent. With my back to him, I could feel his eyes on me, that same itchy feeling between my shoulder blades that I always got when I knew he was watching me.

“It's distracting and I do not like it. We should keep to our respective flats for a while until it hopefully passes. Feel free to invite Watson to yours, I know how you enjoy his company and it keeps him from buggering me. Goodnight.” I didn't turn when I heard him move, staring straight ahead at nothing until I heard the front door close softly and my shoulders slumped as the breath I had not been aware I had been holding released itself.

Neither of us had outright said it, but the implications were more than enough to give me a headache and I had a hard time pushing away the unnecessary disappointment his suggestion had elicited. This was what I had wanted, so why would I feel this way? It was truly maddening, but I hoped some distance would help both of us to get over whatever it was we were experiencing, because now it was clear that I was not alone in this. Knowledge I could've gone without to be honest.

***

Over the next few weeks, I saw very little of Sherlock, dividing my time between work, which I had taken more on to keep myself occupied, and John who came by at least once a day for a cup or two of tea and small-talk. Mrs. Hudson would occasionally join us, bringing along baked goods that were mostly consumed by her and John, since, as mentioned before, I tended to eat very little when working on projects. Something I learned was what Sherlock did as well when working on a case, which explained Mycroft's silence over the phone when I had mentioned it to him.

Speaking off, I had not seen the older Holmes again since our last dinner, he had been swamped with work as he was nice enough to inform me after I had finally bought myself a phone. As to the younger Holmes, him I hadn't seen either aside from the occasional running into him in the hallway upstairs, where we exchanged polite greetings, but that was as far as it went.

Unfortunately, my little problem had not yet gone away as I had hoped it would on account of keeping my distance, if anything it had only gotten worse, and my usual nightmares had been joined by much more pleasant dreams that were just as unsettling to me.

John had told me about the new case they had taken on and as much as I had been curious about it myself, I had declined his offer to work on it with them, knowing that staying in close proximity to Sherlock wouldn't be a good idea. He also wouldn't want me to tag along, he had made it perfectly clear that we should keep our distance from each other, so that was what I continued to do.

I hadn't been up in their flat in weeks and usually ignored the sounds coming from upstairs, but tonight I couldn't help but perk up when I heard noises that sounded suspiciously like a fight. If I hadn't heard Sherlock stomp down the stairs just a few minutes earlier, I wouldn't have left my own flat to go investigate but since I knew for certain that he hadn't come back yet, I was worried for John, fearing someone had come to attack him. Their case had gotten them mixed up with Chinese smugglers after all and I doubted they very much appreciated someone poking around in their business.

Just when I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, I saw John lying on the ground near the front door, a black-clad man towering above him, who immediately spotted me. If I had payed a little more attention and hadn't been distracted by the sight of my friend in trouble, I would've likely noticed the other two people coming down the stairs. As it was, I didn't. Not until I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head and the world turned dark, my last thought a prayer that Sherlock would come home quickly and realize John had been kidnapped.

***

I really should've been less worried about John and more about myself, but it didn't even occur to me that I would be taken as well. Another oversight on my part as it turned out, because I found myself bound to a chair when I came to again, my mouth covered with a strip of tape, the smell of the adhesive burning in my nostrils. Blinking my eyes to dispel the blurriness of my vision, I tried to first take stock of myself and then my surroundings, coming to the conclusion that while I was unharmed, that might not remain so. John was bound to another chair, on the other side of the abandoned tunnel we had apparently been taken to, barely lit by burning trash-cans. He didn't have tape over his mouth the lucky bugger but since he was also tied up with no means of escape, I couldn't be too envious about it. What worried me more than our current state of helplessness however was the rather large crossbow, the kind I had seen during escapology acts at the Chinese circus when I had been much younger. And it was pointed directly at me, how very delightful. A quick glance to my left clued me in to the fact that John and me weren't the only ones having been kidnapped, there was another woman in much the same predicament I found myself in and it took me a moment to sort out who she might be. I hadn't met her before but it was safe to assume that she must've been John's flavour of the month, something with an S, Sandy, Susan? I couldn't remember and it really didn't matter at the moment.

My head was throbbing from where I had been knocked out and I was certain that there had to be a good-sized bruise, though at least I didn't seem to have a concussion. Moving as imperceptibly as possible, I tested out the ropes that were holding me to the chair but whoever had tied me up sure knew what they were doing because there was no give at all. No way to get out by myself it seemed. The woman next to me, Sally?, was crying softly, eyes wide and fearful but as cold as it seemed, I payed her little mind, focusing instead on John who was loudly arguing with the short-set woman standing in front of him who apparently believed him to be Sherlock. If there hadn't been tape over my mouth, I could've told her that she most definitely had the wrong guy, but unfortunately not much more than muffled sounds came out. It did garner me the woman's attention though and I did not like the smirk she gave me, not one bit. Much too smug for my tastes.

“You seem to care greatly for this woman, perhaps a little demonstration will loosen your tongue enough to tell me where the treasure is.” With that announcement, she turned to the crossbow and pulled out a knife, stabbing at the burlap bag filled with sand that, once empty, would drop a counterbalance weight into a bowl at the end of the crossbow, which would then send the very large arrow straight into my chest.

“I'm not Sherlock Bloody Holmes!” John bellowed, his panicked voice echoing off the walls as he frantically tugged at the ropes that bound him to his chair, but I knew it wouldn't do much, though to be fair, I was yelling from behind the tape again even if I knew that also wouldn't do much. To my surprise however, the woman came toward me and, not very gently, ripped the tape off my mouth, causing me to hiss from the very unpleasant feeling of having half my lips torn off my face.

“He is not Sherlock Holmes you imbecile! Did you even once try to find a picture of the man? Because if you had done your proper research, you would've realized your mistake a lot sooner,” I spat acidly, annoyed that I even had to point this out. For potential smugglers, they were horribly inept at reconnaissance. The very first thing I would've done would be to find a current picture of my target and go from there, to avoid mishaps like these. Amateurs.

“You should listen to her,” a voice called out from somewhere behind me, a very familiar voice that instantly relaxed me upon hearing it, though I viscously squashed the relief I was feeling down. None of us were out of the woodwork yet, least of all me because the sand was still pouring from the bag, the weight getting closer and closer to the trigger which would mean immediate death for me. The woman aimed a pistol I hadn't even noticed before at where I supposed Sherlock was, though I didn't particularly appreciated the fact that I was more or less in the guns line of sight. I had quite enough deadly weapons pointed at me, thank you very much.

“Sherlock Holmes is nothing like him. How would you describe me? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?” I couldn't help it, despite the danger I was in, I rolled my eyes at his cockiness and answered at the same time as John.

“Late?” “Full of himself.” John and I exchanged a grin as Sherlock audibly huffed in annoyance at my comment before continuing with his monologue.

“That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second...” he was interrupted by the woman who was still pointing her gun in his direction and she sounded less than impressed, obviously having no idea where Sherlock was going with this.

“The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet and there is a very high possibility that it will hit you instead of him. Might want to put down the gun,” I finished the explanation I had no doubt Sherlock would've given and, as if we had rehearsed it, I heard him kick over one of the burning trash-cans, casting more shadows for himself to hide in. Glancing over my shoulder when I felt something tug against the bonds around my wrists, I shortly met Sherlock's eyes, right before a man appeared behind him, looping a red scarf around the curly-haired detectives throat a couple of times, pulling it tight. I heard his cry from behind me, but my attention had turned to the more imminent threat to my life because the weight was just about to drop into the bowl and I rather not get impaled by an over-sized arrow today, I still had things to do after all.

I caught sight of John who had somehow managed to stand up, despite his legs being tied to the chair, but unfortunately he had fallen to the ground next to the crossbow and he wouldn't be able to get up in time to help me. He could try and kick the thing in hopes it would move enough it was no longer pointed at me, but unfortunately from his position he could only kick in one direction and then it would be his girlfriend that got impaled, which was just as unacceptable as my own death. Time for a different tactic then. Taking a page out of John's book, I awkwardly stood up, casting another glance behind me. Sherlock was still fighting off his attacker and calculating quickly, I turned back to John, shuffling toward his girlfriend.

“When I say kick, kick the crossbow!” I called out to him and he nodded at me, determination glimmering in his eyes. Wasting no more time, I reached the poor woman who was still crying, shooting her an apologetic smile before simultaneously ramming her and yelling out to John, hoping I hadn't miscalculated. Both me and Sabine (?) toppled over and I felt the air move just above my head as the arrow shot out of the crossbow, followed by a rather sickening sound when it hit its target.

“Good job soldier!” John let out a tired chuckle at my compliment and I grinned over at him, hoping someone would soon untie me because lying on my side whilst bound to a chair wasn't the most comfortable position. The poor thing next to me was sobbing around her gag and I caught sight of Sherlock as he stepped up to us and righted her chair before untying her, speaking softly to the distressed woman, softer than I had ever heard him before. My stomach fluttered at how considerate of her trauma he seemed to be and I closed my eyes in dismay. Was it too much to ask for those feelings to just go away already?

“You're a reckless idiot.” My eyes flew open again and my chair was moved into an upright position, the man who had just admonished me undoing the ropes around my wrists from the feel of it. I waited for him to come around before giving him a piece of my mind, wanting him to see the annoyance on my face as he kneeled down to help me untie my legs. 

“I detest that. Reckless I might be, but I'm hardly an idiot. A thank you would've been nice instead of an insult. I did just save you from getting strangled to death after all. Not that you would ever admit you were in need of help of course, the great Sherlock Holmes...,” my tirade was abruptly cut off by a pair of lips pressing against my own and my eyes nearly bulged out of my head, right before they fluttered close, my mind going completely quiet for the first time ever.


End file.
